


The Symbol and The Sum

by costsofregret



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Spoilers, one part is underage Sam but not explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/costsofregret/pseuds/costsofregret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title based on a Kansas lyric. </p>
<p>Summary: A journey through Sam's emotional life from adolescence to the present, always with Dean as the center and the core. Spoilers for season nine and speculation ahead.</p>
<p>Posted in three parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Symbol and The Sum, 1/3

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of three. And dedicated to tebtosca, as always.

Sam was sixteen when he fell in love with Dean. Well, maybe that wasn’t quite right. He was probably always in love with Dean. When there’s only one person to build a life around and with, it’s hard not to feel all the different loves for that person.

Sam was sitting on his bed when Dean walked in, throwing his jacket on the nearby bed. They were living in a rundown track house near the railroad. The poor insulation made the passing trains sound like roaring things from nightmares, monsters that whished by, missing them but always there to remind them that one day…

“What’s wrong, Sammy?” Dean asked as he flopped on the bed. “You fail a math test or something?”

Sam laughed at the absurdity. They both knew even when he didn’t try he passed. It was his thing. They each had a thing. John had anger and obsession. Dean had carelessness and recklessness. Sam had intelligence and angst.

“Just thinking is all,” Sam muttered as he got up and went into the kitchen. He searched around for the loaf of bread and peanut butter, finding the bag only had the ends left in it and that the peanut butter was barely clinging to the inside of the jar, empty scratches announcing its depletion. He sighed heavily as he made the sandwich, forcing the plastic knife around the edge of the jar, hoping to gather enough to spread a thin layer over the dry bread. The bread crumbled under the spread, breaking off into small bits that fell through his fingers, but he continued trying to salvage it, paying no attention to the tears falling down his face, big tears that dropped onto the bread leaving small pools on the oil.

Suddenly hands were taking the bread away, a wet paper towel was cleaning the peanut butter from his palm, and a worried voice tried to penetrate his haze.

“What’s going on with you, Sam?” Dean whispered loudly. It was more like a shout but it sounded far away, from some distance he had never noticed between him and his older brother. He stared at Dean as he cleaned the butter and blood from his palm. _Huh_ , Sam thought, _I didn’t think plastic knives could cut._  

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean led him toward the metal table and chair set they’d picked up at a thrift store a few weeks ago. It was rusted and uncomfortable but it was a place to eat, so they made do.  “I’ll go get us some food,” Dean murmured as he poured some peroxide over his palm. Sam hissed as the liquid bubbled and spilled over his hand, wetting his jeans.

“Looks like you pissed yourself,” Dean chuckled and nodded toward the gathering wetness on Sam’s crotch. Sam closed his legs, feeling a certain shame under Dean’s gaze.

He watched as Dean wrapped his hand in a thin layer of gauze. The wound was superficial, at best, but ever since Sam had gotten sepsis from, of all things a playground injury, Dean had become terrifyingly vigilant about cleaning wounds.

“Go lay down and I’ll make a store run for some grub.” Dean pulled his keys out of his jeans and was heading out when Sam’s hand shot out and grabbed his brother’s arm.

“Don’t steal,” Sam pleaded. “If we don’t have the money, I can wait.”

“Sammy. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“No.” Sam shook his head. Something like panic began to move through his body, rushing up through his legs and into his arms, taking hold of his chest. “No,” he said again, vehemently and without breath. “You can’t. You’re gonna get caught and then what?” Sam didn’t add the question that hovered, _Then what happens to me when you’re thrown in jail? What happens to me when you’re gone?_  

Dean sighed and shook Sam’s hand away. “No stealing, okay? I got some money left from the yard work I did for that creepy old man down the road. Not much but enough….and Sam?”

Sam looked up and Dean’s mouth quirked in that familiar way that told him his brother was about to lob an insult. Dean had tells and his mouth was always the first one to give him away.

Sam shook his head before asking, “What?”

“Stop being such a girl. Crying over peanut butter? What’s next? A coffee commercial?”

Sam rolled his eyes and refused to respond as Dean hurried out the door. The truck roaring to life melded with the echoes of the oncoming train and the weirdly congruous sounds hurt Sam’s ears. He hurried into the bedroom and laid down on the rumpled bed that belonged to his brother.

Time passed and Sam drifted in and out of sleep. He didn’t know why but the world seemed slightly off its axis and he knew he would never feel the same way again. Yesterday was forever lost to him.

_"Hey, Winchester, how old’s your brother?” Claire Simpson had asked, smacking her gum as they sat at the lunch table. He’d not had money for lunch so she’d invited him to share hers. It was the typical rich girl skinny lunch. Fruits, rice chips, and two diet sodas._

_“Twenty,” Sam responded before he bit into the apple. It’s sweet juice squirted into his mouth and he held back a moan. They’d not bought fresh fruit in a while. Fruit was always too expensive at the convenient store._

_“Hmm,” she pulled out the gum and stuck it between two napkins. “He seeing anyone?”_

_“What? Why’re you asking?” Sam’s spine straightened in a defensive posture. He didn’t understand his own reaction and spent little time reflecting on it as he laid the apple down on the table._

_Claire shrugged and then smiled suggestively or at least what she seemed to think of as suggestively. To Sam it looked pained and immature, a grotesque mixture of naiveté and seduction. “He’s cute,” she announced, as if the world didn’t already know that. Sam had been witness to too many girls who thought that way, always feeling bad for them because Dean’s attractiveness was the weapon he used against the world, to hold it back and use it._

_“You’re too young for him,” Sam told her and didn’t touch the apple again. His appetite was suddenly gone._

_Claire’s previous generosity turned ugly without warning. She considered him with a dark stare before her hand swiped the apple away, throwing it in the bag before tossing in the garbage can next to the table. “Whatever,” she seethed viciously. “Maybe he’s too into his brother for anyone else.”_

_The words, meant to be insulting, crashed over Sam and the only thought he had was “Mine. He’s Mine.” In that moment Sam’s world fell apart, crackling and burning into ash under the fire of his jealousy. He said nothing as Claire walked away, or rather stomped in her too high heels. He was too devastated to look. Instead he stared down at his hands and saw the body of a monster._

“Hey, Sam, wake up,” Dean knocked Sam’s legs off the bed. “Food’s here.”

Instead of moving Sam turned his gaze up to Dean, who held up two bags from the local burger joint. The smells of the grease and meat triggered the nausea that had already been sitting in the bottom of his stomach. He jumped up and pushed Dean aside as he rushed into the bathroom, choking on bile and old soda. He felt Dean kneel next to him, wiping his forehead as his hands locked around the toilet seat.

“Sammy?” Dean pulled him up when he finished, holding him by the upper arms as he guided Sam back to bed. “I’ll get you some water and crackers, okay? I think I have some left from lunch.” Sam watched as Dean dug into the crumpled paper bag he brought with him to the daily labor site. He cursed as he pulled out the broken package of crackers.

“Dammit. I think they’re some that aren’t broken.” Dean offered the package to Sam as he sat down gingerly on the bed. “I’ll go get you some more.” Dean made to get up but Sam stopped him.

“Don’t go,” Sam begged.

Dean stared down at him, contemplating him for a few seconds before asking, “What’s wrong with you, Sam?”

It was such a loaded question and Sam couldn’t help the tears that started to fill his eyes. He turned his head, ashamed of the weakness, ashamed of his own misshapen and deformed feelings. Dean laid a hand on his cheek and forced him to turn back.

“Hey Sammy.”

Sam could hear the worry in his voice and he wanted to assure Dean, tell him it was nothing except hormones and adolescence, but sometime during  the last 24 hours he’d lost his adolescence, lost his childhood, and not to the monsters they hunted but to the monster he never knew he was.

“Why am I this thing?” Sam asked and he could tell Dean didn’t understand. And he was glad. But a part of him wanted to shout it at his brother, make his brother part of this horror. He wanted to punish Dean with his truth and knowledge and love.

“You’re making no sense, man.” Dean shoved him aside and like so many times before when he was young and scared, Dean drew him close, wrapping his arms tight around Sam’s middle. It had been his safe space, this embrace. And no matter how Dean had teased him when he was a kid, Dean would always give him this, give him this place of comfort, but now what had been the closest of touches was a poisonous rash that fell against his skin, making him want to scratch at the flesh where they touched, open it up so they could be one, blood on blood. Sam started to push away but Dean held fast.

“Did someone hurt you, Sam? Tell me his name. I’ll take care of it.”

Sam smothered a hysterical laugh against his brother’s shirt. The denim tickled his nose as he opened his mouth wide in a silent scream. _No one but myself_  , he wanted to yell. He shook his head finally, knowing that if he tried to speak the words would be incoherent and wrong. This is where he begins the lie, he realized.  Someday in the future he would look back on this day as the first, the first lie, the first sin, the first time he held his brother close with secrets laying between them.

“I’m broken,” Sam whispered, only willing to admit this smallest of abominations.

“Stop it,” Dean commanded, punctuating his sentence by squeezing Sam a little too tight. “I’m telling you, man, you need to tell me what’s wrong. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is.”

Sam didn’t respond. He turned his head and nestled into the crook of his brother’s arm. He stared up at the ceiling for a few long minutes before repeating, “I’m broken. No fixing it.”

Dean sat up and Sam fell out of his arms. He didn’t move, instead continuing to look up at the ceiling as he felt Dean’s gaze center on him and then finally he knocked Sam’s knee with his own, making Sam look at him. Sam turned slowly and wondered if he just let all of it show in his eyes, then maybe Dean would know. If anyone could see inside him, it would be Dean. So he let himself relax and let it all be there between them.

Dean inhaled sharply when he met Sam’s eyes.

“Dean,” Sam raised his hand and for the briefest moment their palms laid against each other’s before Dean slipped away, his own hand falling down and over, away from Sam. That’s all Sam needed to know.

“You’re not broken, Sammy,” Dean spoke, his voice quiet in the now too quiet room. He laid a hand against Sam’s cheek, the brief touch accentuated by a whispered, “You’re perfect. Remember that.”

“Dean,” Sam reached up but his brother had already moved away, shaking his head as if emerging from a hypnotic state. For a second a look of anger, rage, resentment flashed across Dean’s face, but it was quickly hidden by a cold stare.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” he said gruffly. “Dad’ll be back tomorrow and we’ve got work to do.”

With that, Dean left the room, closing the door behind him.

******

Sam never discussed Dean with Jess. When he left for Stanford, he promised himself a new life, a life that didn’t involve hunting, obsessed fathers, or brothers who demanded too much.

They fucked for the first time on her birthday. They’d gotten drunk on cheap wine and high on expensive pot. Their friends, the college friends everyone gets when they start and mostly lose when they finish, had ribbed them about their epic love, needling them about how well they fit together. Her tall and thin body wrapped in denim and silk; his wrapped in denim and flannel.

They’d stumbled back to her place afterward, fondling each other as they entered her room. Her roommates had left them alone that night, giving her a “birthday gift” they’d said as both had winked when they left the crappy dorm room he shared with Brady.

He tried not to think about anything else as he undressed her. Her body was beautiful, a map of curves and circles that beckoned him down and in. He would never admit that his mind wandered to another whose birthday was the same day. He’d never say that part of his need to drink was not to get courage to make love to her and he’d never confess that he fed her drinks because he wanted oblivion in case he said the wrong thing, whispered the wrong name. All of those sins were deep inside, buried and hidden under glass and grass and dirt, bathed in salt and waiting to be burned.

“Sam,” she moaned as he dipped his head between her legs. His lips traced the valley and dips of her body. She ran her fingers through his hair as his tongue reached out, flicking playfully against her core. Her hips bucked at each touch and when she began pulling at his hair, he took the signal and moved up, aligning himself with her. Their bodies were parallel, a geography of roads converging and intersecting. He sunk into her and an image of another face flashed through his mind. He shut his eyes, trying to block that face, but it reemerged in his memory, appearing ghostlike behind his eyelids.

His hips ricocheted off hers. He picked up the rhythm, responding to her demands for speed but also trying to run away from the ghost inside. He wanted to pour himself into her, let all of his monstrosity out to seep inside her soul, but instead he broke apart, his scream speaking out her name, his name but without sound. Sam saw, for a second, the place beyond the shame and he collapsed on her body. His body was rubble in its aftermath.

His tears fell on her shoulder and he rose up, watching it bead on her skin, reminding him of water on crumbling bread and peanut butter.

It was her smile that was his damnation. She reached out, placing her hand against his cheek. Her smile was gold and light and her words, when she spoke, threw him into that ground, next to that salted and ready to be burned ghost.

“That was perfect,” she whispered. “You are perfect.”

He leaned down and let the tears roll onto her. He bit her shoulder to share the pain.

******

“What are you doing?” Bobby asked as Sam carried the dead weight of his brother across the room, laying him gently on the bed. The parents were dead. The child was gone. This house, where Lilith visited horrors onto them all, was now silent in the afterward.

Sam ignored Bobby as he went into the bathroom. He grabbed the peroxide and bandages. When he walked back into the bedroom, followed closely behind by Bobby, he saw the small box of thread on the dresser. Suburbanites always had thread. He grabbed it and set up his station on the nightstand.

He lifted Dean and removed his jacket, folding it gently and laying it aside. Bobby stood off to the side as Sam cut away the shirt, revealing the wounds that tore through Dean’s gut. Sam took the peroxide and began working on the wounds. He poured the entire contents of the bottle over Dean’s stomach and the white bubbles slid up and down Dean’s sides. Sam paid no mind to the blood as he threaded the needle with bright red thread. The gashes were so large, almost too large, but Sam pushed the flesh together anyway, piercing the skin with the needle and slowly closing the wounds.

“Sam,” Bobby whispered when he was finishing the first tear. There were four large gashes and three smaller ones. Sam knew the larger ones needed more attention and care. He learned from Dean that the stitch had to be precise and tight. If not, it would leave an ugly scar.

“Sam,” Bobby said again but this time he reached out and grabbed Sam’s wrist. “Boy, you’ve got to stop. Cops are going be here before long. We were too loud.”

Sam shook him away, “I have to finish these. Then we leave. He has to be whole.”

“You know we have to burn….” But Bobby’s sentence never finished. Sam got up and shoved the man back, pushing him into the wallpapered wall.

“Sam,” Bobby warned, pushing his hands up between them. The younger man didn’t step back, not for a few long seconds, but when he did, he added an extra push for emphasis. “He’s dead. The body has to be burned or else….”

“Fuck you,” Sam yelled. “No! If we burn him then how will he come back? He needs his body, Bobby!”

“Sam, he’s not…”

“If you say it, I’ll kill you.” Sam whispered, his voice laced with menace and intent.

“No you won’t,” Bobby responded, but there was a hint of insecurity in his words. At this moment, he wasn’t sure he was right.

“We finish this. Then we leave. ” Sam’s words were cold and hard, like rock stuck in ice.

Sam returned to his work and he didn’t count the time as it passed. It was just getting daylight when the final wound was closed. Sam got up and went into the bathroom and soaked a washcloth with water and gentle soap that smelled of lavender and wealth. He sat down next to his brother, whose eyes stared unseeingly up at the ceiling. He pushed the cloth back and forth over the now stitched up skin, cleaning the dried blood away. Bobby reached over and laid his hands over Dean’s eyes, but Sam’s hand shot out, stopping him.

“Please go,” Sam pleaded softly. Bobby should leave. This was his and Dean’s journey, their lives, not his.

“You’ll need help burying him,” Bobby said. After a few moments of silence, though, Bobby must have gotten the gist of Sam’s request, must have understood what this meant.

“You can’t know,” Sam told him and Bobby nodded. If Bobby knew where he was buried then he would be a target. Sam was going after them all. They both knew it. And Dean’s body would be their most powerful weapon.

“Can I?” Bobby motioned toward Dean. Sam got up and turned away. Bobby was saying goodbye, which made Sam’s blood boil with rage and denial. This was not it. This was not how it ended.

Bobby came up and stepped around him, “I’m gonna head back up to the yard, so you know where to find me when you need to, okay?”

Sam nodded, keeping his gaze unlocked and wandering. He couldn’t look at Bobby. The older man left and Sam was there, with Dean. He rummaged in the drawers and found a t-shirt that was Dean’s size and pulled it over Dean’s arms, his body still pliable but Sam could detect the rigor setting in.

He took the jacket and laid it across his brother’s chest as he picked him up. He didn’t notice the weight or heaviness as he laid him in the back seat of the Impala.

He drove for hours, only stopping for gas and bathroom breaks, until he reached his destination. He parked in the field around mid-afternoon and began to dig until he was sure the hole was deep enough. He carried the empty box to the hole and placed it inside. He’d picked up the wooden coffin from a mortuary on his way out of the last big city they’d driven through, making excuses about pranks and hazing for the new college group coming this summer. They’d not blinked an eye when he paid too much.

As he laid Dean in the box, he took the jacket and stared down at the amulet. His childhood distilled down to a cheap necklace. He gently slipped it over Dean’s stiffened head and clutched it in his hand and then slipped it over his head, letting it lay against the sweat soaked skin.

Before covering the box, Sam laid his head down on Dean’s stomach, one last time. His fingers squeezed the soft cotton of the new shirt, his cheek beginning to carry the indents of the rigid skin and the stitches that ran across his brother’s torso. Tears leaked out from the sides of his eyes as he whispered, “You’re perfect. Remember that. You’ll be perfect when you come back, I promise.”

He didn’t know how much time had passed but eventually he rose and locked his brother into the box. He covered the box quickly and planted the makeshift cross with one powerful thrust. His hands rested on the arms of the cross and the finality of it all hit him. He bowed under its force, falling to his knees. The sobs shook him, earthquakes shuttering through his body as he realized a world now existed without Dean. He broke, bending into the dirt, grabbing handfuls of it and washing his face in the grains.

He glanced up and over the horizon, to the small track house near the railroad, then laid down to rest. He laid over the grave until night fell and day rose again.


	2. The Symbol and the Sum 2/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title based on a Kansas lyric.
> 
> Summary: A journey through Sam's emotional life from adolescence to the present, always with Dean as the center and the core. Spoilers for season nine and speculation ahead.
> 
> Posted in three parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is dedicated to Kells.
> 
> And as always, tebtosca brings me inspiration.

Dean came back without scars – just a handprint on his shoulder, reminding Sam that he failed, that he was not the one to save Dean. His failure stood watch over their relationship, the third wheel in a car that was breaking down.

“What are you doing?” Dean yelled again as Sam took his shirt off. They’d been fighting a demon stuck inside a bodybuilder. The demon had kicked out, hitting Dean square in the chest and knocking him out cold. Sam worked to open Dean’s coat so he could see the damage. Dean pushed at his hands, but the pain must’ve caught him because he fell back on the motel bed.

Sam shrugged off his jacket and threw it onto the chair. He lifted Dean up and took his jacket as well, all the while his brother bitching about not being a child. Sam ignored him and finally Dean leaned back and didn’t protest as Sam slid the shirt off his shoulders. Sam hesitated when he saw the handprint but only for a moment before he set to work checking for cracked ribs or other internal damage.  Once he assured himself Dean was okay, he handed his brother a couple of painkillers and some whiskey.

He fell back beside Dean, only bothering to kick off his shoes. He turned his head and looked at the other bed. He couldn’t find the urge to get up. He just stared at the cheap quilt until he heard Dean’s breathing slow in sleep. His quest to take down Lilith was sapping more of his energy every day and he itched for another round of demon blood. He needed to be powerful and strong. She was getting close to the 60th seal. He couldn’t let her finish.

He lay there for a while, not sure how long, with his body bent over the edge of the bed, his feet planted on the carpet. He sat up slowly and turned toward Dean. His brother’s head fell to the side, his neck long and relaxed as he softly snored. Without his shirt on, Dean’s chest was bare and Sam could see for the first time since he returned the fullness of the handprint, its mark glistening in the dimmed light of the room.

A feeling of anguish rolled over him as he let his gaze wander from Dean’s arms to his chest and then down to his stomach, where there were no scars, not one bit of evidence that he’d been torn apart and left dead in his brother’s arms.  Sam reached out and touched the flesh, his fingers tentative as he traced the imaginary lines he’d sewn not even a year ago. He remembered the brutal precision, the focus on getting the stitch right, for Dean. He’d let the ghost of his brother’s expert hands guide him as he’d laced the skin together.

And yet there was no sign of his work, nothing to show Dean that he spent hours repairing his body, hoping that it would be perfect again for when he returned. Instead Dean had been rescued, saved, brought back by someone else, someone who wasn’t Sam – someone who hadn’t spent years of his life following Dean around - someone who didn’t know what it felt like to see Dean smile at dumb jokes or make bad puns.

“You’ve got to stop,” Dean ordered quietly, bringing his hand to rest over Sam’s.

Sam tried lifting his hand but Dean’s held it firm and shame coursed through him. He refused to look at Dean, focusing his attention on the place where their bodies met. He tugged again, trying to free himself but Dean’s sharp breath stopped him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled still not looking at Dean’s face. “Sorry.”

“Sammy,” Dean whispered and the pull of that voice, the familiarity that ghosted its way through the word reached out to him, its sound a palm against his cheek that turned his eyes toward Dean. He met his brother’s gaze and they lay there in a mockery of a poetic pose, one body half draped against the other, threatening to twist around and through each other.

“I tried.” Sam felt the hiccup in the words, the threat of tears hanging loose in his throat. He knew they were talking about many things at once. His addictions. His fears. His insecurities. His desires. Dean saw through him, through to the core and the knowledge hurt because it meant there was no hiding, no running into subterfuge.

Slowly Dean lifted his hand and gently pushed Sam away. Sam rolled over, his body easily tumbling forward to the edge. He didn’t move towards the other bed. He just stared up at the ceiling, his torso stretched across the other side of the full size bed, feet again touching the carpet, the stiff and dirty fibers poking through the bottom of his socks. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel them as small flames licking at his soles.

“He made you perfect,” Sam finally said into the cold stillness of the room, not bothering to hide the jealous tint of his voice.

“Sam.” Dean bent up, wincing with pain as he pushed back against the flat pillows. The headboard was a pale beige and its lightness set off the dark circles under his brother’s eyes.  Sam didn’t move his eyes, afraid to look at his brother, afraid of the silent conversation they were bound to have here in this too intimate moment.

“Look at me,” Dean spoke softly as he reached out to touch Sam’s shoulder. Sam shrugged before the fingers could rest for more than a moment. He sat up with his back to Dean.

They remained silent for too long. Seconds ticked by and pushed into territory they’d never really been before.

“I came back,” Dean said, his voice tinged with something between exhaustion and hope. Hope for what, Sam didn’t know. “I came back,” Dean repeated.

Sam didn’t answer. Yes, Dean came back but Sam knew that he didn’t understand what Sam went through. How that feeling of failure took hold and the only thing he had left was killing Lilith.

“Hand me my shirt,” Dean ordered, the softness gone and replaced by a gruff coldness. Sam grabbed the clean t-shirt out of the duffle at his feet and handed it back without looking. The shirt was tugged away quickly and when Sam turned around Dean’s chest was hidden, but the edge of the handprint stretched out from beneath the hem. Sam stared at it until Dean reached up and pulled the hem down, hiding the scar from Sam’s view.

Sam got up and lay on the other bed. They didn’t speak again for the rest of the night.

********

The last person Dean said goodbye to before trying to surrender to Michael was Lisa. Not Sam.

Sam wondered if all apocalypses felt like pieces falling out of place.

********

“Oh Sam. Sam. Sam.” Lucifer tsked at him.

Sam wasn’t sure how long ago Detroit was. He could sense they were out in a field, out in the open.  He caught glimpses of what was going on – but he realized time and space were no longer a known mathematical calculation for him.

“Soon, Sam. Soon. But until Michael shows up, let’s play a little game, shall we?” Lucifer chuckled and Sam was back in that house near the railroad track.

“I know your deepest and darkest secret, Sammy…” Lucifer taunted as the room came into view. Sam saw his sixteen year old self lying there, looking at Dean with too much adoration.  His hand was suspended in midair, frozen in time, just bare inches from his brother’s face. Dean’s back was hunched forward, his posture somewhere between defeat and exhaustion.

“See that, Sam?” Lucifer pointed at Dean, walking forward into the room as if he were a teacher explaining a diorama. “This look?” He nodded toward Sam’s young self, “Oh you are a travesty of a soul, aren’t you? And Dean?” Lucifer reached out and laid a hand on Dean’s back, “Oh Dean, so caught between loving you and feeling disgusted and disturbed by you. You know that, right?” Lucifer’s question was accompanied by an innocently evil expression.

Sam didn’t respond, turning his head away as Lucifer leaned in. The devil brought his lips near enough that they shared a breath and then his face changed, the deep set eyes turned bright green, the jaw straightened and suddenly Dean stared at him. Sam choked back a sob and closed his eyes against the temptation to make it real.

Lucifer’s voice became Dean’s, but with tints of softness and seduction. “You know I only want to make you happy, right, Sammy? I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted, desired. Just lay back and let me….oops, Michael’s here. We’ll finish this later.” Lucifer smiled as he pushed Sam back. Sam struggled but he was locked in place. He could feel the tension and anger and despair rocket through them, heard the echo of Lucifer’s pleas to Michael. Heard Michael’s rejection.

The muted sounds of a Def Leppard song filled his ears and Sam redoubled his efforts to break free.

“DEAN!” He screamed, knowing he would come, even as he prayed Dean would stay far away from this place.

He broke free and ran through doors that opened one after another, with no end in sight until he heard the deadly words.

_Nobody dicks with Michael but me._

He felt Lucifer’s rage as he snapped his fingers, saw in his mind’s eye Castiel explode into a million cells, separated into matter.

_Sammy, can you hear me?_

“Run, Dean! Run!” Sam punched at the door in front of him. It was locked tight. “Run! Dammit!”

He winced when the shot hit his back, his chest. Sam fought off tears as he sensed his hand raising, knew in his bones that Lucifer was about to twist Bobby’s neck around. “Please don’t,” he yelled as Bobby’s cracking bones sent echoes through the field. “What have we done?” Sam wailed. His tears were accompanied by the thunder of punches as he knew, deep in his soul, that Lucifer was about to kill Dean.

_Sammy, are you in there?_

“Oh please don’t,” Sam cried, pounding on the door, this door that was both oblique and mirror. He watched as Lucifer brutalized Dean. “Please, no,” he begged. “Anything but this. Anything.” But Lucifer’s rage was magnificent and large and overpowering. This anger that seemed to breathe with rejection and despair. Each rejection enacted as an assault on Dean, the last thing tying Sam to the world.

_Soon it’ll be just you and me,_ he heard Lucifer chuckle as another punch was thrown.

_Sammy, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you._

Sam kicked at the door. Lucifer’s anger was tremendous and as Dean spoke, promising to not leave, that anger grew into something that resembled something like envy, but a deadly envy, a biblical envy, one that struck out at the world and wanted to take what it had so no one could have it. Lucifer was the void.  He was the abyss.

A light suddenly pierced through the door and Sam watched as the light cracked the glass, thousands and thousands of points slipping through the mirror. Its warmth then turned to fire and the glass of the mirror crackled and twirled into sand that ran through Sam’s fingers, ashen snow falling toward the ground. And then it was him and Lucifer, together.

“You pathetic….” Lucifer turned to Sam, all the while their joint fist was still raised, hovering over Dean’s body. The final and fatal blow ready to crack down and steal Dean’s life.

“Oh, I don’t believe I’m the pathetic one here.” Sam whispered menacingly as he approached Lucifer. All of the angel’s rage stood small and insignificant next to Sam’s love for Dean. “I will end you,” Sam promised as he plowed into Lucifer, his fists crashing into the angel’s spirit again and again, that broken spirit that had transformed love into violence, apathy, pain – each punch was a memory of Dean, each blow a memorial to their lives together. He knew he couldn’t kill Lucifer but he could force him back, lock him behind the door, at least for the few minutes he’d need to imprison the devil forever.

Lucifer screamed from behind the door as Sam took control of his body. He stepped back and stared at the bloodied face of his brother. The beautiful symmetry was now marred with hills and valleys of violence. Lucifer had broken Dean’s face and Sam knew that he would now have to break Dean’s heart.

“It’s okay, Dean. It’s gonna be okay. I got him.” Sam heard the voice of his younger selves weep into his words.

_Look Dean, I found a frog._

_Dean! Look! I brought you a burger._

_Dean! The fish! I got him!_

In these final moments, as Sam reached into his pocket to pull out the rings, he hoped Dean was as proud of him as he had been back then. He chanted the spell and watched as the hole opened up. Lucifer’s agony pulsed out, his voice demented with desperation. “Don’t you dare, Sam!!!!!!!”

Sam knew he didn’t have much time so he glanced back at Dean. He wanted to say all those things he never did.

_I love you._

_I admire you._

_I will miss you._

_I’ll always be with you._

_I don’t want to leave._

_Tell me it’s gonna be okay, Dean._

_You saved me, Dean._

But those words weren’t enough. All he could hope was that Dean would remember this moment not as failure or as loss. He hoped that Dean understood he was the one who saved the world.

He didn’t hear Michael’s words, just felt his presence and before Lucifer could bust through, Sam fell back, bringing the apocalypse down with him.

********

Sam had written 65,700 marks on the walls of the cage before he left it. 


End file.
